


Thieves and Beggars

by yopumpkinhead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/pseuds/yopumpkinhead
Summary: After killing Cain, Dean and Sam head off on what should be a simple witch hunt in California to blow off some steam. But when a spectre from their past shows up, the supposedly straightforward hunt suddenly gets complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_b_rackham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/gifts).



> For the amazingly patient red_b_rackham for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction! 
> 
> She asked for _"some sort of adventure with a bit of ship (whatever you're comfortable writing/whatever works for the story), and a slice of angst (big or small, depending on how the story goes - up to you) and humor (again, whatever amount makes sense for the story). Something where Dean and Bela have their usual push/pull dynamic, full of snark and sass. I really like their dynamic and the potential of it, both for the good and the bad - I think they equally could be great or kinda toxic for each other and that's a fun line to walk. XD Dean or Bela centric, I'm happy either way. Red Sky At Morning is my absolute fav SPN ep of all time. I love the story - pirate ship! ghosts! undercover heist to steal the object! vanquishing the ghosts in an explosion of water! - the Dean/Bela banter and chemistry, learning Bela has some hidden depths, and of course the humor (Sam and Gert, Dean and Bela's snark), etc. Everything."_
> 
> It's a little light on angst, but hopefully it hits all the other notes. Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt - this was a ton of fun to write. Enjoy!

 

“So,” Sam said as the highway became a surface street and Dean slowed the Impala to dodge a series of deep potholes, “are you going to tell me yet why we had to drive all the way to California on this particular weekend?”

“I _did_ tell you,” Dean said, flashing him a grin. “It’s a hunt, Sammy.”

“And that’s _all_ you’ve said,” Sam complained. “Do I at least get to know what we’re hunting before we walk up to it?”

“A witch,” Dean said.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw the irritated expression that flashed across Sam’s face, saw his jaw work as he swallowed back what was probably a snarky reply. He was doing it because of the Mark of Cain on Dean’s arm, but Dean hated how everyone had been walking on eggshells around him ever since he’d killed Cain. Finally Sam said, “I guess they’re killing people?”

“Yep. Eight people over about six months,” Dean said. “One in Louisiana, three in Arizona, and four in Texas.”

Sam eyed him. “And you think the witch is in Vallejo now?”

“I _know_ the witch is in Vallejo now,” Dean said. The traffic was getting thicker the closer they got to Mare Island Way, and he had to focus on making sure nobody sideswiped his baby in their rush to get to the same place he was headed.

“How do you know that?” Sam asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

“Because,” Dean said, “all eight of the victims went to Renaissance festivals the day they died, and there’s only one vendor who was at all three festivals - a tea and spice merchant named Geoffrey MacCannon. And according to his website, his next stop is…”

He drew out the word as they rounded a curve in the road and the wharf along the Napa River came into view - along with a forest of colorful shop tents, a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of people in fanciful costumes, and floating behind them all on the river, a two-masted pirate ship complete with cannons. Dean waved grandly at the crowd and finished, “the Northern California Pirate Festival.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he said.

* * *

“Arr! What brings a landlubber like ye to a pirates’ gathering, matey?”

Dean knew he was grinning like an idiot as he handed his ticket to the snaggle-toothed, soot-stained pirate guarding the entrance to the festival, but he didn’t care. “Me ‘n my brother here—” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Sam, who wore his patented I’m-not-related-to-him-I-swear expression— “want to be pirates.”

“Aye, that’ll be easy enough,” the ticket-taker said with a cheerful grin. “You just gotta learn to growl like a pirate. Arr!”

“Arr!” Dean echoed, putting on his best pirate snarl.

The ticket taker’s grin widened and he clapped Dean on the shoulder, nudging him through the gate into the festival grounds. “There, see? Yer a pirate!”

“Did you hear that, Sammy?” Dean said as they headed in. “I’m a pirate!”

“You’re something, all right,” Sam said, though Dean could see the amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Without waiting for a response, Sam lifted his head, taking advantage of his height to look over the crowd’s heads. “Any idea where our witch’s booth is?”

“Oh come _on_ , Sam, live a little!” Dean protested. “How often do we get to go to a freaking _pirate festival_?”

Sam’s eyes flicked down to Dean’s forearm, where the Mark of Cain hid under the sleeve of his jacket, before he caught himself and looked away again. “Dean—”

Dean sighed. From the tense set of Sam’s mouth, Sam was remembering the barn in Ohio last month, the grisly _thump_ of Cain’s headless body hitting the floor. For a moment the bright California sunlight dimmed, the Mark throbbing under Dean’s skin. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to dig his fingers into the Mark. “Look,” he said. “I just wanted to do something fun, okay?” He didn’t add, _that doesn’t involve killing_. “Just for once. Something to get my mind off… you know.”

Sam blew out a sigh that fluttered his bangs. “Yeah, okay. Fine.” There was that walking on eggshells again, and Dean couldn’t quite decide whether to punch Sam for it or be glad he’d given in. “So what do you want to do?” Sam added.

“Look around!” Dean said. “Grab a beer, check out the swords! And the ship!” A woman walked by, wearing a hiked-up skirt, striped leggings, and a corset that did interesting things to her breasts as she sashayed past. “—And the ladies,” Dean added with a leer.

He ignored Sam’s eyeroll, mostly just glad that Sam wasn’t asking more questions. Ganking a killer witch wasn’t Dean’s only motive for coming to Vallejo. He wasn’t here because of a hunt - he hadn’t even known about the killings until after he’d looked up the witch. He’d originally discovered Geoffrey MacCannon’s name when looking through a set of records he’d found in a forgotten filing cabinet in the back of the Bunker’s storeroom. The records had tracked the movement of powerful relics around the United States, as well as the Men of Letters’ attempts to recover the more dangerous ones. Geoffrey MacCannon had been listed as the owner of an ancient necklace made of three rusted nails stained with blood, said to have the power to protect its wearer from any curse.

Last month, Cain had said that Dean would kill Castiel and Sam. If a necklace of rusty old nails could keep that from happening, Dean would stop at nothing to get his hands on it. The fact that the necklace was in the possession of a witch who’d recently joined the Freddy Kruegar fan club just meant that Dean wouldn’t have to try to bargain or steal it away.

The necklace was also why he hadn’t told Sam the specifics of the hunt until they’d gotten there - he hadn’t wanted Sam spending the two-day drive to California researching MacCannon and possibly finding out about the necklace. Sam didn’t need to know about Cain’s prediction, not yet. Not ever, if Dean could help it.

“Look, it ain’t like we can gank him in the middle of the festival anyway,” Dean pointed out. Sam’s mouth thinned and he shook his head, but it was the _I guess you’re right_ expression rather than an argument. Dean grinned. “Come on - they’ve got a beer tent over there, and— Holy shit! Bacon-wrapped turkey legs!” He grabbed Sam by the arm and hauled him over to the food court, ignoring Sam’s sputtered protests.

Half an hour later, Dean licked grease off his fingers and took a swig from the souvenier cup of beer that had cost almost as much as the ticket into the festival. Sam, on the other hand, was still sipping from the freaking _banana smoothie_ he’d gotten. Seriously, who got a banana smoothie at a pirate festival? Who _sold_ banana smoothies at a pirate festival? Freaking California hippies.

His hippy California brother shoved a handful of napkins at Dean. “Dude. You’re gross.”

“I’m appreciating the period-appropriate foods,” Dean retorted. He swiped at his hands with the napkins, then balled them up and lobbed them into a nearby trash can. “Seriously, man, you could have gotten a pork chop on a stick and you went with a _smoothie_?”

Sam ignored him, standing on his toes to look over the crowd again. The little riverside park was packed with hundreds of people, many of whom were in full costume: a gaggle of tavern wenches, a man with a tricorn hat and a leather longcoat that made Dean sweat just to look at him, a pair of women in Victorian dresses and bustles with hats covered in feathers, and at least three men in Captain Jack Sparrow costumes of varying degrees of authenticity. A woman in full pirate gear, complete with orange-tipped pistol, winked at Dean as she passed.

“Hey, check it out,” Sam said, pulling Dean’s attention away from the swell of the woman’s cleavage over her corset and the jangle of the coin belt hanging from her swaying hips. He pointed up an aisle of vendor tents. “Isn’t that your tea witch?”

Dean followed his finger, squinting against the bright California sunlight, and spotted a cheery little stall full of silver tea tins. The sign over the stall read “MacCannon Teas & Spices” in big letters, and below that, “Best Powders in the Pacific!”

“Yahtzee,” Dean said. He led Sam through the crowd, drifting as though they were just window-shopping the merchants along the way. Stamped leather mugs here, beads and trinkets there, a henna stand with a lot of women and a lot of bare skin covered in intricate red-brown designs. The stall next to the tea shop sold leather goods - belts and belt loops for mugs, sword frogs, belt pouches, and more - and Dean lingered at the edge of the store pretending to browse the hanging rack of belts while Sam wandered over to the tea shop.

From where he stood, Dean could see that it was just a little tent, with barely enough room for two people to stand inside, and Sam had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the underside of the tent. A young woman sat behind the back table, dressed in a detailed, clearly well-made bodice, blouse, and skirt. The outfit wasn’t as revealing as a lot of the tavern-wench costumes Dean had seen outside, but it had obviously been put together with care, and looked more like something out of a historically-accurate period movie than a Halloween pirate costume. She smiled brightly at Sam. “Welcome to MacCannon’s Teas!” she chirped. “I’m Anne. Can I help you find anything?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam said. “I’m looking for something to help me sleep better. Do you have anything with chamomile?”

The fact that his little brother knew anything about tea - especially ones with chamomile in it, which Dean had gathered from Lisa was something froofy and yoga-related - made Dean cringe internally, but it was more than enough to distract the salesgirl. “We sure do!” she said. She leaned over the table, pointing out a couple of different tins, while Sam kept asking questions about the ingredients and their usefulness.

As they talked, Dean wandered into the shop, pretending to browse while he scoped the place out. There didn’t seem to be a “back room” of any kind, nowhere the witch Geoffrey MacCannon could be hiding. And there wasn’t much else to the little shop beyond the open-sided tent with three tables full of tea tins and jars of spices. Hopefully the witch was actually here at the festival, and hadn’t just sent an employee in his place—

“Would you like to smell any of them?” the salesgirl Anne asked, jolting Dean out of his thoughts. She’d left Sam browsing the spice jars to one side of the tent and was now smiling brightly at Dean. “You can open any of the jars if you want.”

Caught off-guard, Dean said, “Uh, no thanks.” Over her shoulder, he saw Sam taking advantage of the girl’s distraction to look behind the counter.

“All right,” Anne said. “Let me know if you have any questions!” She started to turn around, back toward Sam.

“Actually,” Dean said quickly, drawing her attention back to him. “Your, uh, your costume’s really impressive. Did you make it yourself?”

She brightened. “I did! It’s based on real museum pieces from the 1690s - the middle of the Golden Age of Piracy. It’s as historically accurate as I can get with modern materials.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, impressed despite himself.

“Thanks!” Anne smiled. “I’m going to start my doctorate in history in the fall. There’s so much we can learn from past events, it’s really amazing—”

“Great,” Dean cut in. He’d lived with Sam more than long enough to recognize a geek gearing up to talk about their favorite subject. “Uh, I was actually thinking about getting a costume myself. You know where I can find a good one to buy?”

“That depends on what you’re looking for,” Anne said. There was a slight edge to her voice; behind her, Sam quit rubbernecking over the counter and watched her cautiously. “Do you want something that’s historically accurate, or are you just looking for a cheap movie piece?”

The scorn in her voice when she said “cheap movie piece” was palpable, so Dean said, “Hey, I mean, yours is way cooler than any movie costume. So yeah, something like that.”

Anne visibly relaxed, her bright smile returning. “Well, if that’s the case, you’re going to have a hard time finding something around here, although I do know a few places that can get you started.” She rattled off several shop names and directions to find them in the park, while Dean nodded and smiled and tried to look interested.

Fortunately, the arrival of another couple in the shop gave him an escape before the thought of killing Anne just to shut her up became more than a passing fancy. Sam followed him out, and they headed up the aisle toward the paved walkway along the edge of the river.

“That was fun,” Dean said sarcastically. He leaned on the railing to watch the decked-out pirate ship sail past. Miniature cannons jutted from its railing toward the festival, and further down the walkway, he spotted a roped-off area where costumed reenactors were preparing a row of cannons of their own. The cannons were little things, not much bigger than Dean’s arm, and sat on tables or tall tripods so the reenactors wouldn’t have to bend over to reach them. Still, Dean could see the amount of gunpowder being packed into them - they’d go boom just as well as the big movie-style ones.

“Anne said MacCannon was catching a late lunch,” Sam said. “But I didn’t see anything that looked hokey. If MacCannon is your witch, he’s not casting spells from his shop. He’s not even selling anything especially suspicious. Just… regular spices and teas.”

Dean snorted, dragging a sleeve across his forehead to wipe away a growing sheen of sweat. It was spring still, but they were in California and in direct sunlight. He almost wished he did have a pirate costume, if only because a single layer of open-necked cotton sounded a lot more comfortable than his jacket, flannel button-down, and undershirt right now. And a hat would keep the sun off his face.

Plus it would look _awesome_.

“Let’s stick around until the festival closes for the night,” Sam suggested. “It’s only a few more hours, and we can follow MacCannon home and see if we can find anything there.”

“Sounds good,” Dean said, but something else had caught his attention and he was only half listening. “Look! They’re getting ready to fight the ship.”

Without waiting for Sam to respond, Dean headed up the walkway, shouldering between people to get a spot right up against the rope separating the crowd from the reenactors and their cannons. “Dude! Check it out!” He leaned over the rope to touch the handle of a sheathed rapier that lay across a barrel near the back of the roped-off area. “This ain’t no plastic costume piece!”

He managed to loop his fingers through the handle and tugged it closer, trying to get a better look at it. Behind him, Sam said in an exasperated voice, “Dean, leave it alone, it’s not—”

The rapier overbalanced and toppled off the barrel; Dean scrabbled to catch it but missed, and it clattered noisily to the ground. He managed to yank his hand back before the reenactors turned around, but one of them still glared at him until Sam grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away from the rope. Dean shook him off, but since the reenactor was still eyeing him suspiciously, he followed Sam back to the railing over the water.

It was perfect timing, too, because just then one of the sailors on the pirate ship shouted something across the water to the reenactors on the shore. They shouted back, an exchange of insults and threats, to which the sailor responded by firing a flintlock pistol into the air. The reenactors responded by setting off one of their cannons, which led to a full-scale firefight, the cannons booming back and forth over the water. Dean managed not to hop up and down with glee, but only just.

The little show ended with the boat fleeing, its sailors frantically bailing water over the sides from supposed cannon strikes. Sam shook his head as the ship disappeared around the curve of the shore. “What the hell were they supposed to be bailing? The deck was still like ten feet above water.”

“It’s a show, Sammy,” Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just enjoy it!”

Sam snorted. “It was pretty cool.”

“It was _awesome_ ,” Dean agreed. “I was rooting for—”

A costumed woman caught his eye and he stopped, frowning. “Hey,” he said, thumping Sam on the chest without looking away. “Who’s that over there?”

Sam followed his gaze. “Uh, I think that’s Elizabeth Swann from the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movies,” he said. “From the third one when she’s elected pirate king.”

“Not the costume!” Dean said. “The chick _in_ the costume, she looks familiar.”

Sam looked again, but the woman was already lost in the crowd, her heavily brocaded, vaguely Chinese coat and hat disappearing into the more conventional black leather, white muslin, and feathered tricorns. “Didn’t get a good enough look,” Sam said, and shook his head.

Dean swore under his breath. He was sure he’d recognized her, but couldn’t place her, couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen her before. His gut was screaming at him, though - that lady was bad news. “All right,” he said to Sam. “I’m gonna go find her, see if I can’t figure out who she is. You stick with MacCannon.”

“You sure?” Sam said. “I mean, are you even sure you recognized her?”

“I’m sure,” Dean growled. The Mark itched on his arm and he rubbed it absently. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Wrong movie series,” Sam said with a wry grin. Dean snorted, and Sam added, “Okay, I’m on MacCannon. I’ll call you if he does anything weird.”

“Sure.” Dean started to shoulder his way through the crowd.

“Dean!” Sam called, and Dean turned back in time to see Sam glance at the Mark - he hadn’t missed Dean scratching at it. Sam hesitated, and finally said only, “Don’t you do anything weird, either.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Leaving Sam behind, he took off after the costumed woman.

* * *

Despite the crowd, Dean hadn’t expected it to take him nearly two hours to track down the woman again. She was slippery as a fish - he’d catch a glimpse of her oddly-peaked hat or gold brocade only for her to vanish by the time he got to the spot. He actually passed Sam, who was browsing in the vicinity of the tea booth, several times, though from the look of things MacCannon wasn’t doing anything exciting and Sam was getting bored.

At six PM, a fusillade of cannon fire announced the festival’s close. Dean parked himself just outside the exit gate, his back to the wall where only the most paranoid people would think to check as they left. Apparently his quarry was just that paranoid, though - he almost missed her walking behind a cluster of Victorian ladies in high hats. But the Mark sang through his blood and he pushed off the wall to melt into the gathering shadows behind her.

Stalking her got easier as the sun slid lower in the sky, and he managed to keep track of her all the way through the parking lot. She slipped into a little silver Honda and he had to scramble to get to the Impala, but caught up to her again in the traffic jam at the lot’s exit. She was still remarkably paranoid, though - he almost lost her twice more on the streets of the city. Dean had to use every trick he knew to stay on her tail until she finally pulled into the parking lot of a quaint little two-story motel in central Vallejo.

Dean hung back as far as possible, the Impala’s lights off to allow the car’s black paint to blend into the twilight shadows. The woman went into a first-floor room at the far end of the motel - a good place, less likely to be seen or heard by other guests. Dean gave her a few minutes to let her guard down, then slipped out of the Impala, across the parking lot, and to the door. Through it he could hear water running - the woman must be taking a shower to wash off the dust and sweat of the festival. The motel was old, not yet upgraded to those annoying keycard locks, and it took him only a couple of seconds to jimmy the deadbolt with a credit card. He pushed the door open and stepped inside—

—and found himself face to face with the business end of a gun.

“Why are you following me?” a woman’s voice demanded. She had a British accent, and her voice was even more familiar than her face. He could see her clearly for the first time; she’d lost the hat but not changed out of the rest of the costume yet. Long dark blond hair pulled back in a bun, sharp cheekbones, pale grey eyes, a mouth that his memory said was curved into a wicked little smile more often than not.

Dean kept his hands where she could see them. In truth, he wasn’t that surprised she’d been waiting for him. She’d been acting paranoid enough since he’d spotted her that he’d figured she was expecting _something_. He flashed her a bright smile. “Maybe I just want to join the Brethren, O King of Pirates,” he said in his best pirate accent.

The woman blinked in confusion, then the hand not holding the gun came up to brush the front of her costume. “Right,” she said dryly. “Well, thank you for your interest, but I’m not looking for minions. Now get out before you cause any more trouble.”

Something in her words, her voice, her sharp-edged English accent tickled Dean’s memory, and abruptly he remembered a ghost ship, a swanky party, victims of a vengeful ghost who drowned people on dry land. He stared at the woman in shock. “Wait. ... _Bela?!_ You’re her, aren’t you? Bela the relic thief who tried to kill us!”

She blinked, then her eyes widened and she stepped back, though her gun never wavered. “ _Dean Winchester_?” she demanded, clearly as shocked as he was. “I heard you died. Repeatedly.”

“I thought _you_ died,” Dean said. “Hellhounds, wasn’t it? A crossroads deal. How’d you weasel out of that?”

“Powerful friends,” she retorted. “How did you get out of yours?”

“I didn’t,” he said. He gave her a smile that had the fiery edges of Hell in it, and was rewarded by the shudder that ran through her body. “So,” he continued, “you wanna tell me what you’re doing here, Bela?”

She smiled faintly. “I haven’t gone by Bela in years. Since the last time you and I met, in fact. It’s rather nostalgic.”

“So what should I call you, then?”

“Bela is fine,” she said, and there was that self-satisfied little smirk. “And as for what I’m doing here - what do you think? I’m enjoying the festival.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean said. “‘Cause dressing up like a pirate was _so_ your thing before.”

“A girl’s got to have hobbies,” Bela said. “Besides, you haven’t the faintest—”

She broke off with a sudden sharp gasp, folding at the waist, her gun falling from her hand to clatter to the floor. Dean froze, not sure if it was a ploy, but the desperate choking noises coming from her throat sounded real. “Bela?”

“ _Help_ …” She collapsed to the floor, spasming, hands scrabbling frantically at the front of her costume. The heavy brocaded coat wouldn’t open, though, and abruptly Dean realized that the wide belt around her waist and chest was constricting, crushing her ribs, preventing her from breathing.

He dropped to his knees beside her, shoving her hands away and grabbing at the belt himself. The sturdy fake leather didn’t budge - and even as he yanked at it he could feel it tightening. “Damn it!” Dean growled. He drew his knife out of his coat and showed it to Bela. “Hold still.”

She tried, though her body still shook as it fought reflexively for air. Dean slid the knife under the front edge of her coat below the wide belt and used the heavy fabric as leverage to wedge the tip under the belt. The fake leather was hard to cut, but Dean kept his knife sharp enough to cut bone, and after a few bad seconds managed to slice open the belt and force it away from her body. Bela sucked in a ragged, painful-sounding breath - and then her freaking _coat_ began to constrict instead.

“ _Damn_ it!” Dean yelled.

At least he’d already partially sliced the coat trying to get at the belt, so it took less time to get the knife under the fabric again. He left a long shallow slice along her abdomen, but got the coat, and the light undershirt she was wearing beneath, cut open as well. When he yanked the fabric away from her, a small coin purse attached to a thin chain necklace fell out with it. It didn’t look like a hex bag, but Dean snapped it free of the chain and tossed it across the room anyway. He waited for a minute or two, but Bela’s bra - the only clothing left on her upper body - didn’t start to strangle her, and her desperate gasping slowly eased.

Which was when Sam stepped through the still-open door. He froze just inside the room, looking from Dean where he knelt over a gasping, half-naked Bela, and Dean _saw_ it when Sam leaped to the obvious conclusion. “Um,” Sam said. “I’ll just, uh…”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Come in and shut the door, would you?”

“Uh,” Sam said. He clearly didn’t believe him, but stepped further into the room and closed the door anyway. “If it’s not what it looks like…”

“I think Bela here was about to be our witch’s ninth victim,” Dean said.

Sam blinked, looking from Dean to Bela. “Bela?” he repeated. “Bela Talbot?”

“Yes, Bela Talbot; no, I’m not dead; no, I’ll not tell you how; yes, it’s nice to see you again after all these years,” Bela said. She still sounded a little winded, but her color was back to normal, and she managed to push herself up onto her elbows. Sam pulled off his coat and handed it to her; she wrapped it around her shoulders and held it closed in front. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Sam said, then looked at Dean. “So, we’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, though from Sam’s expression, he could already guess.

“I tailed your phone’s GPS over here because Geoffrey MacCannon is at a karaoke bar with some other guys from the festival, and from the look of it, plans to be there until he’s too drunk to walk straight,” Sam said. “He didn’t cast any spells.”

“Figures,” Dean muttered.

“Geoffrey MacCannon, the witch?” Bela asked. “The one who sells extremely rare herbs for specialized spellwork?”

“I don’t think he has any rare—” Sam began, but Bela rolled her eyes.

“You have to ask him beforehand,” she said derisively. “Honestly, I’d have thought the years would make you less naïve, not more.”

Sam scowled at her. Dean cut in, “Yeah, Geoffrey MacCannon, herb merchant turned killer witch.” Bela gave him an incredulous look and Dean added, “Eight people died at the last three festivals MacCannon’s been at, and he’s the only constant.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Bela said. “I’ve met Geoffrey before, when I needed a particularly exotic spice or herb. He’s never struck me as the killing sort.”

“Because you’re such a great judge of character,” Dean said.

Bela flashed him a bland smile. “I wouldn’t have got this far if I wasn’t, darling. But I’ll make the occasional exception for men who save my life, if they’re pretty enough.”

“Hey!” Dean protested. “I’m not - I mean, I’m—” He turned to Sam for help, but Sam was not very successfully hiding a smile. “Shut up!” Sam did grin then, and Bela’s bland smile turned into a full-blown smirk. Dean glared at them both.

“Okay, fine,” he grumbled. “If MacCannon isn’t our killer witch, then who is? He’s still the only vendor at all four festivals, and we’ve got solid proof that our killer witch is here, too.” He waved a hand at Bela.

“Did you find a hex bag?” Sam asked. “That might give us someplace to start.”

Dean pointed to the floor behind Sam, where the coin purse he’d pulled off Bela’s neck lay. “Just that.”

“That’s mine,” Bela said. “I keep my money in there.”

Sam scooped it up off the floor and emptied it out into his palm. Sure enough, it was a handful of scrunched-up bills and a little pile of change. Then Sam’s eyebrows rose. He plucked a single coin out of the pile and held it up. “This isn’t real money.”

Dean squinted at the coin. Sam was right - it was about the size and color of a quarter, but the design was different - a shield-looking thing flanked by two pillars on the side Dean could see. Bela pushed to her feet, still a little wobbly, and Dean reached out automatically to steady her. She raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t shake him off, and leaned in to peer at the coin herself. “Odd. What is it?”

“It’s a Spanish silver real, I think,” Sam said. He turned the coin back and forth in his fingers. “So technically real money, just not anymore. The reals were replaced by escudos, then pesetas, and the modern version of the real is a quarter of a peseta.”

“Why do you know that?” Dean asked, then shook his head impatiently. “Never mind. You think this is our witch’s equivalent of a hex bag?”

“Probably,” Sam said. They both looked at Bela. “Any idea who gave you this coin?” Sam asked.

She considered for a minute. “The only place I paid for anything with cash was… at Geoffrey’s booth. But Geoffrey wasn’t there, just his new assistant.”

“Anne,” Sam said.

“Wait,” Dean added. “New?”

“Yes,” Bela said. “He didn’t have her last year when I saw him.”

“Killings started six months ago,” Dean said, and raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Maybe she isn’t just helping him around the booth - maybe she’s his apprentice.”

“Okay, but why kill people?” Sam asked. “I mean, she seemed pretty normal.”

“All the vics died after going home from a festival,” Dean said. He paced absently across the little room, thinking. “But they didn’t have anything else in common - there was a Japanese college student, a couple white women, an older dude, um, a black guy…” He shook his head. “They didn’t—”

Bela’s discarded brocade jacket caught his eye, and he froze in place. “Yahtzee.”

“What?” Sam and Bela said together.

Dean spun on a heel to point at the jacket. “In the police photos, all of them were wearing costumes. _Bad_ costumes.”

“Excuse me,” Bela protested. “My costume is—”

“It’s from a movie,” Dean interrupted her. Anne’s words, _Do you want something that’s historically accurate, or are you just looking for a cheap movie piece?_ , ran through his head, along with the scorn in her voice. “Remember how Anne reacted when I asked where to buy a costume?”

“Right,” Sam said thoughtfully. “And she was really proud of hers being historically accurate.”

“One of the vics was dressed in a bad Jack Sparrow costume,” Dean said. “Two of ‘em were fairies, and one of ‘em had one of those gears and goggles things. I think the Japanese guy was in a samurai outfit…” He nodded. “It fits.”

“It’s stupid,” Bela protested. “You really think that girl is killing people for _movie costumes_?”

“You of all people are going to tell me you don’t believe someone would kill for that?” Dean asked her.

Her eyes narrowed, then she inclined her head. “Touché.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “Geoffrey MacCannon’s apprentice is nuts and killing people because she doesn’t like their costumes. Let’s go stop her.”

* * *

“Are we sure she’s still here?” Sam asked.

They were making their way through the darkened festival grounds. Off to one side, a huge tent holding the adults-only afterparty spilled light and raucous singing out across the park, but the main body of the festival was silent and empty. Dean led the way, with Bela - now wearing dark-colored street clothes - close behind him and Sam following her, watching their backs. Dean hadn’t been happy about Bela tagging along, but she’d pointed out that Anne had tried to kill her, and she wanted to make sure the girl was dead. Bela had also not-so-subtly implied that she would follow them regardless, so Dean had reluctantly given in so that at least they’d know where she was.

They headed for MacCannon’s little booth first. Dean had pointed out that the tent hadn’t exactly had a convenient back room for Anne to work her witchcraft in, but Sam had responded that they might at least be able to find something to tell them where Anne was staying - whether she was in a local hotel, or the impromptu trailer park/campground that filled up the north end of the park past the festival grounds. Which was a fair point, so Dean had given in and now led them up to MacCannon’s booth.

The tent’s side flaps had been rolled down and tied closed, though nothing had been locked - not that you could really lock a tent. Sam circled around to the back of the tent while Dean untied the front flap and Bela held a flashlight for him.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Dean murmured as he pulled the flap open. “And here I wasn’t expecting you to be useful.”

“Oh, please,” Bela whispered back. Dean ducked his head and slipped into the tent; she followed on his heels. “If I wasn’t here, you’d have walked right into—”

Dean’s hunter instinct flared and he lunged forward, knife in hand, colliding with something solid and invisible in the corner of the tent. Even as he and his prey slammed to the ground, Bela flung an ashy powder at them both. A flash of light blinded Dean for a second, and Bela finished, “—Or not.”

A man’s voice grunted in pain, and Dean blinked his eyes clear, finally managing to focus on the person he’d slammed to the ground. Geoffrey MacCannon was a tall spare man with a puffy salt-and-pepper beard, wearing jeans and sneakers that looked out of place below an open-necked pirate shirt and knee-length woolen jacket. Through the shirt’s open collar, Dean spotted the edge of an old, rusted nail - the necklace that was supposed to protect the wearer from any curse.

A clipboard lay to one side where MacCannon must have dropped it to brace a hand against Dean’s chest as they fell; in his other hand he held a small glass rod. Dean rolled off him and stood up, and MacCannon warily climbed to his feet as well, studying Dean and Bela with a frown. “Mary Stoker,” he said to Bela. “I didn’t know you’d hired a bullyboy.”

“I didn’t,” Bela said dryly. “He followed me home and now I can’t get rid of him.”

Dean scowled at her. MacCannon just snorted and asked, “So what the hell’re you doing here at this hour?”

“Looking for your apprentice,” Bela said. “Nice invisibility spell, by the way.”

MacCannon held up the glass rod. “Been working on it for a while. You like? I’d be happy to sell you one.”

Bela’s eyes lit up, so Dean jumped in before the discussion could get derailed. “Maybe later. Where’s Anne?”

MacCannon turned cool green eyes on Dean. “So who’re you, if not Mary’s bulldog?”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean said, and flashed a smile with maybe more of the Mark in it than he should’ve done.

“Winchester?” MacCannon repeated. His eyes widened and he flinched back. “Stars and stones—!”

Which was why he shouldn’t have let so much of the Mark through. “Easy, pal, calm down.” Dean held up both hands, though he still held his knife in one and after that smile it probably didn’t look as non-threatening as he meant.

MacCannon barely seemed to hear him, his eyes darting around the tent. “Where’s the other one? There’s always two Winchesters - is the other one gonna jump me—”

“No one’s gonna jump you,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. He raised his voice. “Sammy!”

The back panel of the tent rustled, then Sam slipped through the gap between panel and pole. He held his hands up as well, doing that thing where he managed to look awkward and harmless instead of like six and a half feet of pure muscle. “We just want to talk,” he said in his best reassuring voice.

MacCannon’s eyes darted between Sam and Dean for a moment before settling on Bela. “What’s going on?” he asked her.

“We think your apprentice just tried to kill me,” Bela said calmly. She held up the Spanish real - how she’d gotten it from Sam, Dean had no idea - and MacCannon blinked.

“Anne wouldn’t—” he started, then frowned. “But that’s one of her coins, she uses them as foci…” He trailed off, looking suddenly ill.

“We think she’s got a beef with people wearing movie costumes to Rennaissance Festivals,” Dean said. “Eight people have died in six months, all at fairs you and Anne were at, all wearing historically inaccurate costumes.”

MacCannon shook his head. “But she wouldn’t… I trained her better than…” He looked up at Bela again. “You’re sure it’s her?”

“She gave me that coin,” Bela said. “It’s the only hex focus we could find.” She moved closer to MacCannon, resting a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey.”

“Damn it,” MacCannon said softly. His eyes closed and he sagged back against the table behind him. “I’d hoped…” He trailed off again, shaking his head sadly, and Bela patted his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said gently. “But we need to find her, before she tries to hurt anyone else.”

“Yeah,” MacCannon said. He opened his eyes and pointed past Sam toward the north end of the park. “She pitches a tent in the merchant village. Follow the path through the trailers, she’s the little green tent fourth on the left.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, and turned to go, hustling Dean and Bela out ahead of him.

Dean tried not to let his irritation show as they hurried through the darkened festival grounds. He should’ve gone for MacCannon’s anti-curse necklace when he had the chance - maybe even straight-up asked for it, since they were about to go up against MacCannon’s curse-happy apprentice. But he hadn’t, and now he’d have to find a reason to go back and steal it without arousing Sam’s suspicions.

Then he noticed Bela pull the necklace out of a pocket and begin tying its sliced cord back together.

Dean stopped short, grabbing her wrist. “How the hell’d you get that?”

“This?” Bela asked. “It’s mine, Dean, and—”

“No it ain’t, it’s MacCannon’s,” Dean snapped. “Thieving bitch.” From the corner of his eye he saw Sam shift behind Bela to cut off her escape, visibly confused but still willing to support Dean. “You stole it from him.”

“Did I?” Bela said blandly. Ignoring Dean’s grip on her arm, she finished knotting the cord and slipped it over her head with a smile that wouldn’t have melted butter. “Perhaps he loaned it to me.”

“He was wearing it when I knocked him down,” Dean growled.

“It’s a charm against curses,” Bela said. She shook her wrist free of Dean’s grip with a sudden flash of irritation. “Since we’re about to go after his apprentice who _just tried to curse me to death_ , I think he’ll forgive me borrowing it for a bit.”

“Only a bit?” Sam asked from behind her.

She flashed him a bright smile over her shoulder. “Please, Sam, Geoffrey’s a friend of mine. Do you really think I’d outright steal from him?”

“I think you’d do whatever got you ahead,” Dean said.

“It’s the only way to survive,” Bela shot back. She flashed him another, decidedly colder smile and stalked off through the tents.

Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, but Dean just shook his head and followed Bela. Let Sam think what he wanted, that Dean had just happened to notice MacCannon wearing the necklace and got offended that Bela stole it. Maybe Sam wouldn’t even care, though with his annoying knack for picking up on things Dean didn’t want him to, he’d probably ask some uncomfortable questions soon.

But Dean could deal with that later. For now, Bela had the necklace, which meant that Dean just had to steal it from her instead of MacCannon. And while that kind of thing hadn’t ever gone well for them in the past, that had been before Dean had gone to Hell and come back the Righteous Man, before he’d saved the world, before he’d taken on the Mark of Cain.

Bela didn’t know what she was messing with.

* * *

They found Anne’s tent right where MacCannon had said it would be, surrounded by other neatly pitched tents belonging to the various non-local festival merchants, performers, and crew who didn’t have full-sized trailers of their own. It was a bad area for a hunt; it was still early evening and the camping area was full of innocent bystanders strolling past or lounging in front of their own tents. They’d have to find a way to get Anne somewhere secluded so they could gank her without an audience.

“Let me go talk to her,” Bela suggested.

She, Dean, and Sam stood a little ways away from Anne’s tent, in the shadow of the tarp-draped fence that gave the little campground a modicum of privacy from the public street beyond. Sam, facing the campground, was keeping an eye on the tent in case Anne left or got visitors, while Dean and Bela tried to hash out a plan.

“You talk to her?” Dean repeated. “Sure, that makes sense. She just tried to kill you!”

“I’ve got this now,” Bela said, touching the cross of rusted nails where it hung around her neck. “If she tries to do anything I’ll be protected. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m a small delicate woman, and you’re a hulking great brute of a man. She isn’t likely to walk anywhere with you late at night. Either of you.”

Sam tilted his head, acknowledging the point. Dean thought about pointing out that young women did in fact have reasons to go somewhere with men at night, but that was an opening he didn’t want to hand Bela.

Apparently sensing his hesitation, Bela pressed, “You two go wait round behind the toilets—” she pointed off to one end of the campground, where a little circular building held the public bathrooms that served the area— “and I’ll bring her straight to you.”

Dean traded a glance with Sam over Bela’s head; Sam’s expression said _it’s as good a plan as any_. Dean sighed, but said to Bela, “Fine. Make it quick and don’t get killed.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Bela purred. “You _do_ care about me.” She slipped away into the shadows before Dean could do more than sputter in annoyance.

“I hate her,” Dean grumbled. “I’m gonna kill her _and_ the witch both.”

Sam just snorted. “Come on, let’s move.” He thumped Dean on the arm and led the way across the campground to the bathrooms. There were more people and lights here, which was less than ideal, but then they circled around behind the building and found a narrow dark space between the back wall of the building and the tarp-hung fence that surrounded the park. The street beyond the fence wasn’t exactly roaring with cars, but it was hardly still or silent, either. A muffled gunshot or two stood a good chance of going unnoticed.

“It’ll do,” Dean said. He pulled his gun out of his jacket and checked the rounds. Ganking witches had gotten a lot easier since they’d figured out how to make witch-killing bullets, though, _God_ they needed a better name for them. Hopefully this would be as simple as Bela leading Anne around the corner and a headshot. Still, he motioned Sam back against the far corner of the building, where he wouldn’t be immediately noticeable in the shadows. Even if Anne managed to get a spell off against Dean, Sam could take her down.

They waited in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds the intermittent rush of cars passing and chatter from the front of the building.

Then a crash and a scream tore through the night.

“Dammit!” Dean spat. He was pretty sure that had been Bela. Without waiting for Sam, he charged around the corner of the building, back out into the campground. Squinting past the lights illuminating the bathroom entrance, Dean spotted a freaking _fireball_ as someone’s tent went up in flames. “ _Dammit!”_

Sam appeared at his elbow, standing on his toes to see over the sudden rush of people either running away from the burning tent in panic, or running toward it, presumably to help. “That’s Anne’s tent,” he said. “Where’s—”

“Here,” Bela said. She staggered up to them, the skin of her face and arms reddened, her bangs singed. “Apparently MacCannon’s necklace doesn’t help against traditional old fire.”

“What happened to Anne?” Dean demanded.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Bela snapped. “She realized who I was, panicked, and threw her bloody _camp stove_ at me. I don’t know what happened - I suspect the stove hit some of her make-up and exploded. I got out of there. I don’t know if she did.”

Dean and Sam traded a glance, then plunged into the crowd of panicked campers and shoved toward Anne’s tent. By the time they got there, two people stood over the remains of the tent with fire extinguishers, spraying the whole area with foam. Dean grabbed the nearest bystander. “Where’s Anne? That was her tent - did you see what happened to her?”

“She, uh…” the woman said, looking around. “She was right here—”

“She’s running,” Bela said. “Come on, she probably has a car somewhere.”

Dean took off after Bela, while Sam stayed behind long enough to thank the woman Dean had grabbed. Bela led them out to a roped-off parking lot for festival employees and they split up to cover each of the aisles. Dean slowed to a fast walk, scanning the area, his senses on high alert. The parking lot was full of cars but no people; the merchants were all back at the campground or out getting drinks or dinner. If Anne was here, she should’ve stuck out like a sore thumb.

Movement caught Dean’s eye, and he turned in time to see a car door open and then close, apparently of its own volition. Abruptly he remembered running into MacCannon in the tent, the little glass rod that had made the witch invisible. “SAMMY!” he bellowed. “Over here!”

He didn’t wait for his brother, but drew his gun and fired directly through the windshield of the car into the driver’s seat. He heard a yelp of - hopefully - pain, then the door opened again and a woman’s voice shouted something in Latin. Dean dropped flat behind the nearest car, feeling it shake and rattle above him from whatever spell Anne had thrown. He rolled to his feet again before it had entirely stopped moving, gun raised, but he couldn’t see anything. Fucking _witches_ and their bullshit spells—  

Footsteps slapped the pavement behind him and he spun, firing wildly in the direction of the sound before remembering the possibility of innocent bystanders. The shots buried themselves harmlessly in the passenger door of someone’s SUV, and the footsteps stopped. Dean froze, ears straining. The area was hardly silent, between the commotion still going on in the campground and the cars passing by on the street, and he couldn’t hear anything useful over the background noise - no heavy breathing, no soft steps, no Latin chanting.

Suddenly pressure hit Dean’s lungs and he coughed, choking. Water bubbled in his windpipe and he doubled over, gasping for breath, struggling to draw in air past the water that had appeared in his lungs. His gun clattered to the pavement and he fell to his knees, coughing—

Sam burst out from between two cars, slamming into empty air and falling to the ground. Glass tinkled and shattered, and suddenly Anne became visible, sprawled awkwardly beneath Sam. She struggled against his grip, but he kept her pinned, one hand holding her arms over her head, his knee in her gut. His free hand held a gun under her chin. “Let Dean go,” he growled. “Now.”

Anne whimpered, but the water in Dean’s lungs abruptly vanished. He sagged, gasping. The Mark of Cain burned on his arm, and he had the distinct impression that it was disappointed. It had wanted him to die, had wanted him to fall into its clutches again. He gritted his teeth and made himself ignore it.

“Please,” Anne said, her voice high and thready and terrified. “Please, I’m sorry, please let me go, I won’t do it again, I’m sorry!”

“‘Sorry’ don’t do much for the eight people you murdered,” Dean said. He scooped up his gun and pushed to his feet, crossing the pavement to stand over her where Sam still held her trapped. “They were innocent - they didn’t do anything to you.”

Anne’s face twisted into a sudden snarl. “They were _wrong_ ,” she hissed, the panic replaced by venom. “They had no business swanning around in those awful costumes, breaking the rules, disrepecting history—”

“Okay,” Sam interrupted, “one, it’s a festival - it’s supposed to be for fun. And two, the samurai wasn’t even historically inaccurate. Samurai existed throughout the Renaissance period. They showed up as early as the tenth century and were still around in the late 1800s. How is that disrespecting history?”

“They don’t belong at a _Renaissance festival_ ,” Anne shouted. “It’s supposed to be about the Renaissance! Not whatever stupid fantasy-land someone made up! There are _rules_ and they weren’t following them!”

Dean grinned, maybe a little darker than he meant, but that was a perfect setup if he’d ever heard one. “Oh, darlin’,” he said, and rested the muzzle of his gun against her forehead. “They’re more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.”

Then he pulled the trigger.

Anne’s body jerked once, a death reflex, then went limp. Sam let go of her and pushed to his feet; as he did, a soft sound behind them made them both turn. Bela stood between two nearby cars, carefully not looking at Anne’s body sprawled on the ground. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it was a bit much to expect that you’d have matured over the years.”

Dean shrugged. “This job don’t come with a lot of perks,” he pointed out. “I take ‘em where I can get ‘em.”

Bela shook her head and turned away. “The police are coming,” she said. “Probably for the fire, but they’ll notice a dead body fairly quickly.”

“We’ll take care of her,” Sam said. “Salt ‘n burn.”

“Of course,” Bela agreed. “Then I believe my involvement here is done. Thank you for saving my life. Please don’t come near me again.” She flashed them a bland smile and disappeared into the shadows of the cars behind her.

Dean was in the Impala with Sam, halfway out of Vallejo with Anne’s body stowed in the trunk, before he remembered that Bela still had MacCannon’s anti-curse necklace.

God _dammit._

* * *

“I really am sorry about all this, Geoffrey.”

Bela leaned against the table in Geoffrey MacCannon’s merchant tent, the shade a relief from the hot sun of the pirate festival’s second day. She wore street clothes today - Dean Winchester had sliced open her costume, and while he’d done it to save her life, she couldn’t help but be a little annoyed by it. She’d paid good money for that costume, and it had been fun to dress up for something that hadn’t been a job.

Or at least, hadn’t _mostly_ been a job.

“It’s all right,” MacCannon said tiredly. “She was killing people. That goes against everything I believe in. Everything any decent person ought to believe in.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bela said. “She’d gone mad. There’s nothing you can do about that.”

“Yeah.” MacCannon trailed off, his left hand coming up to touch his bare chest through his shirt’s open collar. He frowned and shook his head absently.

“Something wrong?” Bela asked.

“Nothing. Just can’t find my necklace,” MacCannon said. He tapped his chest. “Thought I had it last night but haven’t been able to find it since.”

“A necklace?” Bela said, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

“Yeah, ratty-looking old thing made of nails. Family heirloom,” He had a good poker face, she’d give him that. If she hadn’t known better she might have believed him. “Wish I knew what happened to it.”

“Actually,” she said, making her tone thoughtful, “now that you mention it, I thought I saw Dean Winchester with a necklace like that last night. I only noticed it because he hadn’t been wearing it earlier, and it seemed an odd thing to wear at all.”

“That _Winchester_ stole it?” MacCannon demanded.

Bela shrugged. “I don’t want to point fingers,” she said. “He might’ve just had his own necklace.”

“Sure,” MacCannon said dryly. “‘Cause rusted nails are this season’s hottest accessory.” He shook his head, fingers drumming on the counter. “Thanks for telling me, Mary. I’ll figure something out.”

“Of course,” Bela said. She leaned across the table of merchandise to give him a quick hug. “Take care of yourself, Geoffrey. I’ll see you again sometime.”

“You too,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

She smiled at him and headed out of the tent, slipping through the crowded festival grounds until she reached the exit. Only when she was safe in her car, away from prying eyes, did she pull the anti-curse necklace from a pocket and slip it over her head.

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!_

**END**


End file.
